


Appearences

by FriendOfTheFugitive



Series: My Dear Inquisitor [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anger, Coping, First Kiss, Fluff, Flustered, Haircuts, Headcanon, M/M, Minor Injuries, Sexual Tension, Skyhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5377415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendOfTheFugitive/pseuds/FriendOfTheFugitive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Ferron Lavellan's first night at Skyhold; he's injured and overwhelmed by all that has unfolded in the past couple days. Dorian hears a disturbance in his room and goes to check on him, starting something that both men don't care to stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Appearences

**Author's Note:**

> I've actually been waiting to finish this baby for a long time and only recently got the inspiration to do so. I know Dorian's first kiss is after his companion mission but hey - it's headcanon for a reason. Any and all feedback is appreciated - I love hearing from you! Thanks for reading! <3

It was late, too late in Ferron's case. He laid in his new, extravagant Orleasan bed - which was a major step up from the blanket he usually slept in - staring angrily at the ceiling. It felt like he had been awake for days, all this stress and pressure triggering the vice he had since he was a child. With each breath, his bruised ribs wailed in dull protest against the pressure.

With a frustrated growl, Ferron swept out of the bed, almost knocking his head against the wooden canopy. His armor pressed into the two bruised ribs, causing a sharp pain to snap through his body. His hand went to his side as he stood, slowing down and trying to keep it to a dull minimum. " _Fenhedis_ -!" he cursed in Elvish as he pushed through the pain.

Ferron lurched towards his desk, his hands clamped down on the wood, supporting himself. He looked down at the small basin full of water, staring at the rippling reflection. Not satisfied with it, he lifted his head to stare into the cracked mirror, hoping it would somehow change the image. A clump of thin hairs fell into his eyes, obscuring his vision.

Rage prickled beneath his skin. “First the entire fate of Thedas is placed on my shoulders because I happened to stumble into the worse situation in the entire world, then I found out that some crazy dark spawn-magister _thing_ is after me because of this stupid mark, and now I can't see because of my overgrown hair!” He muttered bitterly before letting out a low snarl, his hands started to clamber around the desk, rattling the basin and shaking the mirror, looking for some sort of sharp object to fix his most immediate problem. The only one he _could_ fix. Glasses, books and various other things were falling from the desk.

Dorian was examining the main hall when he heard a disturbing amount of commotion coming from the Inquisitor's quarters. The hall was still under construction, so not many people were lingering within it's walls. He opted to check on him, the poor thing had a lot of weight on his shoulders; perhaps he wanted some company.

Ferron found a small backup dagger that was hiding behind the mirror. He gripped it in his hand, white knuckling the blade as he gathered up the loose hairs in front of his face. He pressed the dull blade against them and yanked downwards, pulling painfully at his scalp as he forced the blade through. He let out a low yell, anger boiling over and masking the pain. The hair fell into the water.

Once he could see, he gathered up the long strands behind his head and placed the dagger underneath it. In one, compulsory move, the blade chopped through his thick raven hair, cutting it into a short, uneven bob. Dorian walked into the room right as he yanked the dagger through a clump he missed on the side. "Now what did your hair do to deserve _that_?"

Ferron dropped the dagger and jumped in surprise. The sudden movement caused the pain to return in his system. His ribs yelled in protest and his scalp throbbed. He was breathing heavily, "Dorian - I-," he glanced at the mess he made before locking his eyes back on the mage. He let out a flustered sigh, "What – what is it you n - _need_?"

Dorian let a light smirk pull at the corner of his lips as he crossed his arms over his chest. "This is a tragic scene. The Inquisitor cannot allow himself to be obscured by unruly looks. The Orlesians and the Chantry will eat you alive." His eyes glanced at what Ferron was wearing, "That armor cannot be much of a help to your injuries, either."

Ferron leaned on the desk as he glanced in the mirror. His bangs were cut diagonally, the ends were frayed like they had been set on fire. The rest of his hair was uneven, one side was longer than the other and the small cut above his eye was ebbing blood. _I guess that's what I get for getting angry..._ he thought regretfully. "I didn’t put in a requisition for a hairdresser, but next time they are taking requests I’ll be sure to put that in there. Besides, it hurts more to take _off_ my armor than it does it leave it _on_.”

Dorian laughed as he closed the distance between them. "Fortunately for _you_ , I have a bit of experience with hair.” He took a rag from the desk and dipped it in the water. Dorian gently dabbed it on the bleeding cut on Ferron’s forehead. Ferron raised an eyebrow as red ghosted to the tips of his ears, “Before you ask, I had servants for these things but I preferred to do it myself. Sit down, do you have any sort of tools that are actually _sharp_?"

“Just my wit,” he joked suddenly, engaging the way he brushed off awkward situations. Dorian only granted him a small smirk before reverting back to his previous seriousness. Ferron slid a nearby chair over to him before sitting down slowly, a shaky exhale of breath brushing past his lips. "I'm not certain, they stocked this room for me." He turned to look at Dorian, curiosity on his face, but his heart was suddenly fluttering. Dorian placed the rag back in the basin before turning away and heading towards the wardrobe.

Dorian brushed his fingers through the wardrobe, running over his white topped silk lounge wear that Ferron wore when he shed his armor for the night. They were untouched, still nicely folded next to a collection of hygiene products. There was shaving cream, a straight razor, shampoo, and various other instruments. Dorian fished out the pajamas, shaving cream and the razor. “So, how are you taking this whole ‘ _Inquisitor_ ’ business?”

Ferron turned towards the desk as Dorian silently directed. He shrugged lightly at the question, “I thought that was obvious by now, Dorian. I just chopped my hair off because I was essentially too angry to find a clip.” He chuckled gently, watching Dorian’s movements in the mirror. He put the razor on the desk and rubbed some cream between his hands. He ran his fingers through Ferron’s hair, gently massaging his scalp as he did so.

Dorian smiled, “You have a point, Inquisitor.” He pushed the razor over the sides of Ferron’s head, brushing loose hairs off his shoulders as he did so. When the hair clogged up the razor, he leaned over Ferron’s shoulder and ran the blade through the water, cleaning off the hair as he went. “Why are you up so late, anyhow?” He questioned absentmindedly as he leaned back and slid the razor down from the crown of his head to his hairline.

Lavellan glanced downward, a blush ran across his cheeks. He couldn’t believe how much of an affect this man was having on him. “Well, I – I have a _sort of_ – anxiety disorder . . . one of the ways it manifests is through _In_ . . . - Insomnia. I’ve had it since my magic developed.” He laughed awkwardly as he scratched his arm. “It acts up more when I’m under stress.” He took a deep breath, which made his side ache. He winced, thankful that Dorian didn’t have the blade on his skin.

Dorian ran the clean side of the rag over the newly cut hair, wiping up the extra cream on the side of his head and on the back. “I can see how that would be an _issue_. Well, I hope you don’t become too stressed. Grey hair will _really_ offset your natural color, as well as dark circles under your eyes. You’re too handsome to have such _preventable_ flaws.” He stepped back and admired his work. Ferron had a nice undercut, one that defined his features and made him look older.

Ferron tried to hide the deepened blush on his cheeks. “Is that a compliment?” He teased gently before slowly standing from the chair. He clenched his jaw tightly, trying to hide the pulsation of pain that rippled through his body.

Dorian watched him closely, “Inquisitor, if you don’t mind me asking, do you need help with the removal of your armor? I found some comfortable clothes in your dresser.” He had no ulterior motive other than helping the Inquisitor, and he showed this by offering a sincere smile.

“That would probably be the best idea for me, actually. I think my bandages are becoming loose.” He muttered softly as his fingers began to mess with the buckle on his coat. Dorian moved behind him, coaxing the fabric from his arms slowly, attempting not to move Ferron’s arms or upper body too much. Ferron inhaled sharply as he began to lift his shirt over his head. “Help, please.”

Dorian managed to pull his tunic off and he threw it on the bed. “I’m sure you can remove your pants . . .” Dorian trailed off as his eyes met Ferron’s gaze. Ferron’s breath hitched in his throat as he stared into his light grey pools. “If you need any more . . .” He tried to speak again, but the word were lost in their sudden closeness. Dorian glanced down at the bandages before his fingers gently pressed against them. Ferron’s skin tensed at the touch, but he felt heat rush through his body.

Suddenly, Dorian was leaning in, closing the space between them. Ferron met him, connecting their lips. His heart hammered in his chest, and he felt like sparks were flying behind his closed eyes. Dorian’s fingers curled against his skin, drawing him inward. Ferron reached up, ignoring the pain in his side. His hands ran through his dark locks as he melted into Dorian. They were lost in each other for a brief moment of a slip in control.

Ferron suddenly pulled away from Dorian. His hand went to his lips as he looked down. “I’m sorry, Dorian . . .” he whispered before looking around the room as if someone else was in there. “I shouldn’t _have_ – it was completely inappropriate – I’m so, _so_ sorry.” He gasped, trying to calm the pounding of his heart and the light headed feeling that fogged his mind. “I – don’t tell Cassandra – or anyone – I’m sorry . . .” he continued to apologize profusely, even if he didn’t want to because it was just so . . . _perfect_.

“No, Ferron, don’t apologize.” Dorian started before glancing down. He spoke confidently, but his body language told a different story, one of embarrassment and uncertainty. “I don’t want to take advantage of your state of mind, or your physical state.” He did sound sincere, “If you need anything else, you know where to find me.” He was about to turn and leave before stopping in front of the door, “I have a nice bottle of wine I _borrowed_ from the cellar if wish to chat – it’s a great way to relax.”

Ferron tried to stifle a soft chuckle, “Thanks, Dorian, but I don’t drink.” He watched him leave before he let out the breath he was holding. “That’s just _great_ , Ferron, make out with the attractive Tevinter, apologize for one of the best kisses of your life and then end up alone, turned on and in pain, with a new haircut that said man gave to you out of who knows what . . . although your hair is actually decent for once . . . _ugh_ , what have I gotten myself into?” He groaned in frustration before flopping down on his bed.


End file.
